The Bitter Glass
by Clairseach84
Summary: Sixth-year fic with heavy emphasis on plot and character development. When the unthinkable happens, Harry must fight his inner demons, prepare for the final battle, and deal with the possibility that Voldemort may be undefeatable - alone. No slash.
1. In Which Dudley Dursley Falls in Love

**Chapter One: In Which Letters Arrive and Dudley Dursley Falls in Love**

A summer spent at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Dursley was ideal for anyone wishing to avoid pleasure and wallow in misery.

The boy on his hands and knees in the front yard of Number Four, Privet Drive grimaced and squirmed as a trickle of sweat ran uncomfortably between his shoulder blades. Armed with a small trowel and an old kitchen knife, he had been instructed to rid the Dursley's lawn of dandelions. Attacking yet another noxious weed with manic energy, the boy gouged it out of the surrounding turf before tamping down the remnants of disturbed soil.

Sitting back on his haunches, Harry Potter examined the raw blisters on his right palm with dark satisfaction.

Sirius was dead. Harry was forced to spend yet another summer with his loathsome relatives. While he was sure that the Order of the Phoenix was keeping guard over him, his only personal contact with anyone from the Order was weekly visits with Arabella Figg. Masochism was beginning to look more and more appealing.

Harry scanned the grass around him for any traces of the presence of dandelions before determining that he had just eliminated the last one. Getting to his feet, he replaced his tools in the garage before quietly entering the house. He ascended the stairs, where he entered his bathroom and washed his face and hands quickly. Creeping back down the stairs, he assessed the positions of the Dursleys. His aunt Petunia was chattering on the telephone, no doubt imparting some tidbit of petty gossip to a neighbour. Vernon had collapsed on the sofa in front of the televison with a fizzy drink and a plate of chips, exhausted after a long Saturday of doing absolutely nothing. From the muffled grunts and bright metallic clinks issuing from somewhere below his feet, Harry could tell that his cousin Dudley was in his new basement gymnasium, hard at work on his quest for the perfect body.

Satisfied, Harry slipped out the front door, down the front path, and jogged off down the street until he was out of sight of Number Four. He slowed his pace as he neared Arabella Figg's house, where the elderly squib was waiting for him at her garden gate. Wordlessly she joined him, and together they walked to a nearby ice cream shop.

Over the hot, lonely summer, this had become a pattern. Harry would exist through the long week, alternately performing manual labour for his relatives and sitting alone in his room, brooding. Every Saturday afternoon, he went for his scheduled meeting with Arabella Figg. After the first Saturday when they had sat in her kitchen, eating stale cake laced with cat hairs and drinking lukewarm tea, she had insisted that they go have ice cream instead. "So much more cooling", she said. Harry did not argue. At the shop, Arabella would order Harry ice cream in a huge dish that the shop proudly proclaimed to be 'American Sized!'. (Putting off Harry's protests when she paid, she informed him mysteriously that she had been provided with an expense account. This seemed to please her inordinately.) After Harry had finished his ice cream, she would give him his mail, which Hedwig now delivered to her house after Vernon's strict moratorium on owl post.

This Saturday, Harry sat at one of the shop's small tables, eating his ice cream slowly and methodically. First the cinnamon ice cream, then the vanilla, all the while working carefully around the mound at the centre of the dish. Finally he ate the pumpkin ice cream, savouring its spicy sweetness. He looked up from his bowl to find Arabella's eyes on him, amused; her own small fruit pop had been finished long ago.

"I like to save the best til last", he said defensively. She smiled and nodded, then pulled two parchment letters from her bag.

"From Ron and Hermione", she said. That was obvious: Ron's missive was torn and battered from Pigwidgeon's careless handling, and his scrawling handwriting adorned the front along with several unidentified stains and blotches. Hermione's letter, addressed in her neat script, looked as pristine as if she had just finished writing it.

Harry opened Ron's letter first.

_Harry,_

_Hey! Haven't much to say as nothing is going on. Fred and George are always in London minding their shop, so things are dull. Ginny is driving me crazy, I wish you'd have let that basilisk have her back in second year. _

(Here was a crude but effective sketch of a female stick figure with long hair tormenting a boy stick figure. It was enchanted so that the figures moved, and as Harry watched, 'Ginny' chased 'Ron' off the edge of the parchment.)

_Haven't got much to say, so that's all for now._

_Ron Weasley_

_P.S. Oh! I forgot. The, um, "Group" told Dad that we're in danger from attacks because I'm friends with you (Thanks a lot, mate!), so we've put up more Disillusionment charms all around the Burrow. This means that the muggle boys from the village can't visit Ginny, which drives her mad. Ha! _

Harry allowed himself a small smile before frowning over Ron's postscript. So the Weasleys were in danger because of him. Everyone was in danger because of him. And stuck at Privet Drive, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Arabella was watching him again as he picked up Hermione's message. She grinned. "Saving the best for last?"

Still defensive, Harry muttered, "Hermione always writes better letters. Of more than one paragraph."

Arabella chucked and nodded knowingly. Harry frowned and decided to ignore her, and opened Hermione's letter.

_Dear Harry,_

_I do hope that you're doing well. Are the Dursleys treating you properly? Is Dudley still on his diet? Please don't hesitate to ask if you'd like me to send you some extra treats. _

_I haven't heard much news recently, even though I still get the _Daily Prophet_. The items on how to repel attacks from Dark Wizards continue, although they have slackened a bit in quantity. _

_I often wonder if the group with whom we are unofficially affiliated (you know what I mean) is the only organisation which has any interest in defending the wizarding world. Are all others of our kind blind and brainless? I know that isn't so. Perhaps there are other groups in other parts of the world, and they are as carefully hidden and protected as ours is. _

_I have been studying protection spells and advanced defense techniques over the summer as well as preparing for next year's schoolwork. You are going to continue to lead the D.A. this coming year, are you not? If so, I could show you some very interesting and useful spells and charms that you might consider teaching - although it's quite possible that you know them already. _

_Again, please tell me if all is well. I know that Ron is fine, though he doesn't write very often and what he does send is extremely brief. _

_Please write back soon._

_Hermione_

He smiled again as he finished Hermione's letter, although he did wonder if her family had been notified of any possible danger. Wouldn't she have said something if a member of the Order had visited to set up protection spells around her house?

"Do you have any other news for me?" Harry asked. Arabella shook her head.

"No. I do know that there have been attempts to gain access to members and to headquarters, so I doubt that there will be any news soon. I'm sorry."

Harry could feel frustration bubbling in his stomach, mixing poorly with the monstrous amount of ice cream he had just consumed. He glanced down at his watch. "I should go back before I'm missed. Thanks for the letters and the ice cream, Mrs. Figg."

"You're welcome. Harry? Harry, are you alright?"

But he was already out of the shop door, sprinting back to Privet Drive as fast as his legs would carry him, hoping to exorcise his fear, frustration, and anger through speed.

It did not work. By the time he was back in his bedroom all he could do was flop onto his bed, his stomach rebelling nauseously and his heart heavy with worry. He groaned and rolled into a ball. Sirius was dead. His two best friends and their families were in serious, perhaps mortal danger. He could do nothing. And it was all his fault.

Before he could sink fully into the familiar slough of depression, his bedroom door opened. In strutted Dudley, shirtless and sweaty from his workout. He paused before Harry's mirror, flexing his biceps and sucking in his stomach, completely absorbed in his own reflection.

Harry felt, if possible, even more sick. Seeing the pallid, bulky body of his unloved, unlovely cousin was the last thing on Harry's list of desires. He was not surprised, however, by Dudley's appearance in his room. Growing along with Dudley's mania for a studly body was his desire for approval and affirmation that he was reaching his goal - approval from anyone, even his despised cousin, Harry Potter.

"What d'you think, Harry?" he grunted, expanding his pectorals. "Bigger?"

"Gargantuan", Harry agreed, his face now buried in his pillow.

"I reckon I've gained another inch in my chest in the past two weeks. It's the protein diet and the workouts, that's what. Also" - here he stopped to look at Harry - "genetics. Some of us have it, some don't. Some fellows could work out every day for the rest of their lives and still stay scrawny and wimpy." He gazed pointedly at his cousin.

"True enough. Just like some people can play sports and help win for their team every time, while others can't play sports at all."

"Eh", Dudley muttered, too interested in himself to catch Harry's veiled barb. "Hey, what's this?" He was looking at a framed wizard photograph on Harry's bureau. Harry was usually careful to hide all of his possessions - especially those having to do with magic - after using them, but this time he had forgotten and had left the photo out.

"Oh, nothing", he said quickly. "Just a snap. Dudley, d'you think that you'll enter into a body building competition any time soon?" Harry's distraction tactics were failing: Dudley was still gazing at the photograph, his mouth now gaping slightly. Harry tried again. "Nearly time for your favourite television programme, isn't it?"

"Who _is_ that girl?" Dudley finally managed.

"Which girl?" the picture was of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, taken earlier the previous school year by Colin Creevey.

"_That_ girl. God, she's hot."

Harry gritted his teeth with frustration. That was all he needed: for his boneheaded cousin to fancy Hermione, and bother him about it for the rest of the holiday.

Dudley whistled between his teeth. "The bushy-haired bird's a no-go. But wouldn't I like to meet up with that redhead sometime. I'd like to..."

With a mixture of surprise and disgust, Harry prepared to plug his ears if Dudley began describing exactly what he would like to do with or to Ginny Weasley, when he was saved by the clarion sound of his aunt's voice.

"Dudders! Dudders darling, _He-Man Saves the Universe_ is on the telly!"

With obvious reluctance, Dudley tore his eyes away from the photograph and made his way downstairs noisily.

Alone again, Harry reached for the photograph himself and studied it. Ron stood in the middle, his arms draped about Hermione and Ginny, while Harry stood beside Hermione, laughing at Ron. Harry had to admit, Ginny _did_ look very pretty, smiling straight at the camera, occasionally tossing her long red hair. Hermione, meanwhile, kept casting baleful glares at Ron, who was trying to pull her closer to his side. She did look a trifle annoyed. And her hair was extremely unruly; the photo had been taken after one of her all-night study marathons right before O.W.L.s. So why had he automatically thought that Dudley would fancy Hermione and not Ginny?

"Harry Potter! If you don't get down here and take care of the garbage this _instant_, your uncle shall hear of this!"

Temporarily putting thoughts of Hermione, Ginny, and Dudley's disturbing fantasies out of his mind, Harry hurried downstairs himself to the call of his aunt.

By the time he had finished his evening chores and cleaned the kitchen after supper, it was past nine and the summer evening was rapidly fading. When he returned to his room for bed, he discovered that his photograph had disappeared.


	2. In Which Harry Wages Strategic Warfare

**Chapter Two: In Which Harry Wages Strategic Warfare and Dudley Exacts Revenge (Sort of)**

Harry methodically searched his room for the photograph, even though he knew perfectly well what had happened to it.

Dudley had stolen his photograph.

Without thinking, Harry opened his trunk at the foot of his bed, withdrew his Invisibility cloak from the bottom, and slung it about his shoulders. (It did not, he reasoned stubbornly, count as performing magic by an underage wizard because he was only using the magic innate in the cloak itself.) Softly opening his bedroom door, he crept across the hall to Dudley's room. He could hear voices coming from Dudley's television, as well as rhythmic, deep snoring. Cracking open Dudley's door one inch at a time, Harry peered inside. Dudley was sprawled on his bed, where he had evidently fallen asleep while watching television. And there, clutched in one meaty hand, held close to Dudley's face, was Harry's photograph.

Stepping closer, Harry could see by the last light of the day that all the figures in the photograph had fled to the edges of the picture except for Ron, who was looking dejected, grimacing in disgust whenever Dudley emitted a particularly noisome wheeze.

Harry moved still closer. He was sure he could snatch the photograph from Dudley's hand without waking him. Leaning over his cousin's prone body, Harry nearly had the frame in his fingertips when Dudley grunted and rolled over onto his stomach, pinning the photograph beneath him.

Cursing in frustration, his anger building, Harry stomped back to his room careless of making noise, determined to get his wand and hex Dudley into next week before retrieving his property.

_Don't be stupid, Harry. It's things like this that always get you into trouble_, he heard a voice in his head say. The voice was not soft or placating; it was straightforward, logical, and quite bossy. Hermione's voice. Unstated but implied was the fact that his habit of rushing into things without thinking first was what had lead to Sirius's death.

Closing his door behind him and leaning back against it, Harry exhaled noisily. Hermione was right, or, rather, _he_ was right. He crossed to his bed and sat down on it, where he stared mindlessly at the open lid of his trunk. It was then that he remembered one of the books on defense against the dark arts that Hermione had given him for his sixteenth birthday. Retrieving it, he leaned back against his pillow and cracked it open. _The Art of War_ by Sun Tzu, a great Chinese wizard.

It was just possible that this book could offer him some advice on how to deal with Dudley.

_Know your enemy._

He knew Dudley all right; fifteen years of (unwilling) propinquity had gained him that much.

_All warfare is based on deception._

Good enough. What should he do, tell Dudley that the photograph was cursed with Dark magic? No good.

_If your enemy is superiour in strength, evade him. _

Harry had to grudgingly admit that Dudley was of superiour strength. Although a summer eating a protein-rich diet (thanks to Dudley's culinary demands) coupled with constant yard work had improved his own muscle mass, he was nowhere near the beast his cousin was. Not to mention the fact that Dudley would be supported in any conflict by Vernon and Petunia. In sheer body weight and strategic high ground, if not in wits, he was massively outnumbered.

_If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. _

Now there was an idea. All of the Dursleys were easily irritated...but any irritation Harry caused was more than likely to result in unpleasant consequences to himself.

_If his forces are united, separate them. _

But how?

_Now the wizard who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. The wizard who loses a battle makes but few calculations beforehand. Thus do many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat. _

Frowning, Harry set the book on his lap and closed his eyes. It really was useless, no matter how many calculations he made. One couldn't use logical methods with the Dursleys; they existed in their own private universe of 'Might Makes Right'.

Or could one? An idea fluttered into Harry's mind. He carefully turned it back and forth, examining and expanding it. It just might work. It would work. Harry smiled. Perhaps it wasn't exactly what Sun Tzu had envisioned when he wrote his book, but it was worth a shot. Taking off his glasses and setting his book aside, Harry rolled onto his stomach and fell asleep.

The next morning, Harry set his trap. As his relatives stumbled into the kitchen rather late Sunday morning, Harry had coffee ready to serve. He handed round the eggs and bacon (no toast for Dudley), and gave Petunia her preferred diet shake.

As Vernon and Dudley happily imbibed cholesterol and Petunia sipped fretfully at her breakfast, Harry washed the first of the dishes.

"D'you know, I often feel quite sorry for my friend Ron," he addressed the window over the sink.

Silence.

"Yeah, he's an incredibly handsome guy. Not that _I_ swing that way, of course, and neither does Ron, but lots of other guys do, and poor Ron has a bit of a hard time of it." Harry glanced over at the breakfast table, his expression piously innocent.

Petunia sniffed. "Perverts."

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly what I say. That's what my girlfriend and Ron's girlfriend say too, but of course it doesn't help things. Every time Ron goes out - anywhere, the shops, the cinema - he practically gets mauled. Must be something about him that attracts fellows" - here Harry dropped his voice ominously - "who are _like that._"

"Must we talk about this over breakfast?" Vernon growled.

"Oh, I was just talking things out. That's what families are for, isn't it?" Harry nearly gagged at his own syrupy sentiment.

Before Vernon had a chance to interject his opinion on Harry's place in the family, Harry continued hurriedly. "And there's another thing. I had this school picture of Ron. Had it setting on my bureau next to the picture of my girlfriend. Now it's gone, and I can't imagine what's happened to it. Yesterday it was there, now it's gone. Just like that."

Harry peered over his shoulder at the group sitting at the table. Petunia's lips were still pursed in disapproval and Vernon was shoveling the last bit of bacon into his mouth, but Dudley seemed to be listening. His eggs were not yet half gone. Harry took this as a good sign.

"You don't think that someone could've crawled into my window and _nicked_ it, do you? I mean, they say there's no length to what some of _those people_ will do. Ron is a very good-looking guy."

"Improbable", Vernon grunted.

Dudley had gone a bit pale.

"Well, if it was someone I know who took it, I would probably be sympathetic. After all, it is hard to be different from everyone else. And I'd be sure to tell his family about it so that they could support him in his choice." Harry wondered how much further he would have to push it.

"One should not be _sympathetic _to such people," Petunia sniffed. "But I don't wonder that you would feel that way, considering - well, considering circumstances."

Harry shook his head sadly. "Lots of people think that way. Then it ends up that someone from their very own family is like that. Very cruel surprise for them, I'm sure."

That did it. Dudley stood up from the table so suddenly that he nearly upset his chair. "Goddogoworkout," he mumbled incoherently.

"Are you feeling all right dear?" Petunia enquired anxiously.

"Fine, fine, going now." Dudley fled the room.

Vernon glared up at Harry. "Wouldn't be surprised if he was sickened, what with all this nasty talk of queers and perverts. I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut in future, boy. You're not here to pervert the innocent youth in our house."

Harry thought that attempting to pervert Dudley further would be a task even Draco Malfoy would find difficult, but he nodded meekly and remained silent.

Only a keen observer would have noticed the smile twitching at the corners of Harry Potter's lips.

Sure enough, by the time Harry had the chance to return to his bedroom, his photograph had 'magically' reappeared on his bureau. All the figures were back in the picture now, back to their old positions and familiar posturings. As Harry gazed at the photo, he blinked rapidly and looked at it more closely. Was it just his imagination, or had Hermione just nodded and smiled at him?

Imagination or not, Harry was quite positive that Hermione would approve of his clever tactics.

Sun Tzu would probably be proud, too.

Hell, Harry was darn pleased with himself.

The next day Dudley confronted Harry.

As soon as Harry heard the back door of Number Four slam shut and heavy footsteps on the path, he knew he was in for it. His heartbeat began to accelerate and he could feel nervous tension coursing through his body, but he attempted to ignore it and continued to place bags of garbage into the rubbish bin that stood in the alley just outside the back yard fence.

Dudley barged through the back gate with such force that the hinges shrieked in protest. "That was a filthy trick. I ought to pound you into a bloody pulp, d'you know that?" Dudley was visibly inflated with rage and his face was purplish; Harry was reminded irresistibly of his uncle Vernon. "In fact," he added, his porcine eyes glittering with hate, "I think I will."

Dudley was not the only boy in the alley who was angry: Harry himself was reaching the boiling point. He had been bullied, beaten, bloodied, and tormented by Dudley for fifteen years. This, he decided, was where it ended. So what if Dudley outweighed him by five stone of muscle? So what if using magic would result in his expulsion from Hogwarts? Harry would fight Dudley to the death, and his aunt and uncle could dispose of his own battered corpse in any way they desired. Voldemort could be damned. At this moment, Dudley Dursley was Harry Potter's arch nemesis and that was all that mattered.

So absorbed was Harry in his own thoughts of revenge that he neglected to notice that Dudley was speaking again. "...for me, and make sure she says yes, I might just forget that this happened."

His brain still dancing with visions of blacking Dudley's eyes and bloodying Dudley's nose (in lieu of hitting him with a few well-placed hexes), Harry slowly surfaced. "What? Say what?"

Dudley narrowed his eyes, making them nearly disappear. "Don't try to be fresh. You heard what I said. Ask the redheaded girl to meet me, get her number for me, and I'll reconsider killing you."

Harry was shocked. Never had he known Dudley to evince such interest in a human being besides himself, not even a girl. The surprise temporarily cleared Harry's brain of rage and he considered Dudley with new interest. "She's a witch, you know."

Dudley grunted a laugh. "Of course she's a witch. That red hair, what else could she be?"

"No, she's a _witch_." Harry hesitated, but decided to continue. "I'm a wizard. She's a witch. She goes to my school. She's one of _those people._"

Harry could almost see the wheels turning behind Dudley's slowly blinking eyes. "You mean - d'you mean - she's like _you_? Batty? Perverted? Nutters?"

Harry gritted his teeth. "If that's what I am, yes. She's a witch. She practises magic. Her parents are a witch and a wizard, and her brothers - she has six brothers, by the way - are all wizards. She doesn't even have a telephone, doesn't know how to use one. Still interested?"

"Yes. I am," Dudley said stoutly. "If she doesn't have a telephone - and _who_," he interjected suspiciously, "doesn't have a telephone? You can...you can...you can," his face brightened as an idea struck, "You can get her to send me a letter by owl, or I'll use your bloody big bird to send one to her." Dudley suddenly hesitated, and he sounded, astonishingly, a bit shy. "She would...em, she would write, wouldn't she? I mean, she doesn't already have someone, does she? I'm sure she could fancy me, y'know?"

Harry was horribly tempted to dash his cousin's hopes with a few well-placed words. Here was his cousin Dudley, who had been pampered and spoiled within an inch of his life for all of his seventeen years, who had had everything while Harry had had nothing, whose every wish had been granted almost before he could utter it. Harry had the chance to hurt Dudley as badly in this moment as Dudley had ever hurt him.

_Sorry, Duds, old man_, Harry could picture himself saying. _Ginny has a keen eye for handsome wizards and muggles, and she would probably vomit on sight if you presented your ugly face and lard ass to her as a romantic prospect. Not to mention the fact that most witches prefer a guy who has an IQ higher than his body temperature. _

Before he could act out his thoughts, a memory flashed through Harry's mind: a memory that was not his own, a memory of another pair of teenaged boys, one tormenting the other. He couldn't do it. Swallowing hard, Harry realised that he could not be like his father.

He forced himself to speak. "Well, I don't know, Dudley. Lots of girls want to know the guy they date in person before they go out, don't they? But, well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to ask."

Dudley looked as if Christmas had come three months early. A grin spread across his broad face, and just as he was about to punch Harry's arm in jubilation, he remembered that he hated his cousin and pulled back quickly. "Ah, right. Well, make sure you ask her then, and you had better be thankful that you're still breathing right now."

Annoyed by Dudley's complete lack of gratitude, Harry scowled and turned back to the rubbish bin. He comforted himself with the knowledge that if armed with his wand, he could have defeated Dudley as easily as _Confundus,_ _Incarcerous, Furnunculus_. Although, Harry thought uncharitably, in Dudley's case _Confundus_ would probably be completely redundant...

The summer passed slowly. Very little news from the Order reached Harry, aside from the expected and obligatory, "We're fine, everything here is fine, lie low for the summer and we will contact you when you return to Hogwarts."

Unlike the previous year when Harry had nearly crawled out of his skin with frustration about the lack of news given him, this year it didn't seem to matter. The prophecy weighed heavily on his mind. A sense of doom surrounded him. What could he, an insignificant teenage boy, do to defeat the greatest Dark Lord who had ever arisen? Harry pushed aside the fact that he had walked away from five encounters with Voldemort unscathed. Chance, those were. Happy accidents. Now that Voldemort had regained full strength, he would pick his moment, one in which he was sure not to be defeated, and would simply kill him.

Harry decided that he didn't have a prayer.

Ron's recent letters had deteriorated to one-line scrawls, usually: _Horribly bored, have you SEEN what we're supposed to read over the holiday, so why do they call it a holiday anyway? Bollocks._

Hermione, who had finished her holiday reading list the week after she left Hogwarts, sent much longer messages. Harry re-read part of her last letter:

_...and I was thinking, _why_ does Voldemort have such a fixation on you? That may seem like a painfully obvious question, but if one considers things logically, it begins to come clear. Time after time he has attempted to kill you, often risking himself and his own chances at regeneration to do so. Why would a Dark Lord as crafty and clever as he do something as foolhardy as seeking revenge against a seemingly unimportant young man? I am beginning to wonder if he knows something that we do not. Perhaps you carry some special power that Voldemort must eliminate before he can come fully to power? When we return to Hogwarts I fully intend to research everything I can about Voldemort and your possible significance to him. I am positive that there is more to this issue than what appears on the surface..._

Should he tell Hermione about the prophecy? It seemed like a good idea; she had practically deduced the fact that such a thing must exist herself. It would be an incredible relief to be able to talk to someone about it.

He would tell Ron too, he decided. Both of them.

And Sirius was dead. The pain of thinking about him had now dulled to a throbbing ache, but the nightmares about the battle in the Ministry of Magic were still frequent.


End file.
